Viper Under the Flowerbed
by Arford
Summary: Even in Eden, there are sinners. And on Earth, there is no such thing as Paradise. AU. Starts in GoF. Pairing is as suggested.
1. The Boy-Who-Never-Was

**AN: Another story. This won't be a one-shot and I cannot promise updates regularly, for my muse comes and goes. This is also unbeta'd, but I try and will continue to try my best.**

**Leave a review if you'd like; recommend it to others who have time on their hands. I need all the criticism I can receive.**

**~Arford**

**Viper Under the Flowerbed**

**Chapter One: The Boy-who-Never-was**

There were many days and nights considered beautiful in Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This particular evening, however, happened to be one of those occasions and was spent indoors. Ah, more importantly, it was witnessed by a certain reticent adolescent observing and extracting every detail that he could.

He glanced at the tables around him, drawing in the picturesque scene that his eyes beheld. It was lovely to say the least, but it was nowhere near the perfect masterpiece some would like to see. Still, it was more than nice enough; that, he could not deny.

His vision captured the sight of students bearing various crests signalling differing schools intermingling. The multitude of robe color variation did no harm but only enforced his previous observations. The tables spread across the Hall were full of merriment and laughter.

Well, most of them, at least.

Still, he noticed, were people who seemed left out, whether by their own volition or not, it didn't matter. Amongst a sea of blue clashing with bronze, he spotted a turquoise-clad figure haughtily acting as though she were queen of the realm. Although, from the looks of things, the general female population of the Hall seemed to feel irritated by her very presence in stark contrast to their male counterparts.

Similarly, in attitude, the children at the tables surrounding him had their heads high and proud, displaying a "We don't bow to anyone" attitude. Some were not as prominent and others didn't feel the need to provide any arrogance, for they felt it was already known - their place and rank among society, that is.

In particular, there was this one blonde brat who clearly thought himself above all others. Irritating was not the right word for him. Perhaps nauseating was a better choice. The snob was attempting to insert himself into a conversation with an older looking male, one who looked slightly beyond his school years. Bulgarian, possibly. The younger of the two refused to admit his failure and continued to pester his elder; a pity, their watcher supposed. He turned his attentions elsewhere.

The scarlet-robed students, however, were the most boisterous, and hence the most annoying. Too loud, really. A pair of red-heads slipped through the seats of their table chatting up many women while causing laughs in their general vicinity. He snorted. To those on their decent side those two troublemakers may have seemed to liven up the mood but he knew better, After all, McGonagall, despite berating them, assigning them detentions and docking points, had done truly nothing to dissuade them from pursuing their prankster habits.

He took one more glance around the Hall. All in all, he supposed that everyone was enjoying themselves along with making fond memories with their peers.

Everyone but him, of course. Around him and throughout the hall, students were rambling on and on with such excessive chatter and the typical sounds of joyful food consumption. But at the table where he resided, he was alone. It was the last table of his House, cast off into the darkest corner. The nearest torch and candles lay on the end closest to the other tables, leaving him in the black.

He had no need of bothersome things, such as being in the midst of the Hogwarts crowd. Why? Because he was him, and that surely said enough. But if not, then take a look at who he was.

Who was he? He was a no-name.

No one special. An absolute no one. At least, that's what he and his society made him out to be.

His existence faded because it stood out; it was odd, and thus it was forgotten. Easily. Truth be told: he didn't mind, though. He was fine with the way things were. No one ever saw him. Saw him for who he was. For what he was. What he could be.

Or saw him in general. They had better things to pay attention to, and, clearly, he was not one of such.

This extended to beyond the borders of his own schoolmates. His senses alerted him that no one from the Beauxbatons as well as the Durmstrang bodies registered his breathing body. Even the foreign delegations could see that he wasn't worth their time. And so… as usual… He was… alone, again.

Not that it went noticed, of course.

He sighed.

He completely understood his position in the world: the eternal outcast. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that no one took notice of him. It was crucial to his success, considering the boy attempted to enforce his already-invisible-self. However, despite the fact that he enjoyed his average (or less than average) existence, he wasn't a duffer by any means. Being invisible and being worthless were two very different things.

He shuddered at the thought of being one of _them_. Oh, if it wasn't bad enough being called a bloody badger, it was they were also to be robed in goldenrod.

Fortunately for him, the Sorting Hat agreed and he was spared the pain of being clothed in yellow for his Hogwarts career.

He was thankful that the Hat was as cunning as Salazar was and had the wit of Ravenclaw to follow it up. Had Gryffindor truly crafted the hat by his own hands, the boy was sure things would be even more screwed up than they were now. Well, luckily for him, his world did not traverse that route. Instead, here was he: the Boy-who-Faded.

Being known by no one had its cons, such as having little to no contacts outside a handful of individuals, but its advantage compromised for them. His strength lay in the fact that he was an unpredictable character. He liked that thought. Being the variable that could change things. It made him feel different.

And no one knew his extent in any regard; one of the many rules of tactical living: information is the manna of the sheep, therefore you must feed them just enough, or more than plenty to fatten them for the wolves.

Honestly speaking however, the adolescent could say that he was glad no one knew of him. Including his House mates.

When he was introduced to Wizarding Britain, he read up on its countless traditions and social etiquettes, only to find that Slytherins and their ilk despised his kind of people and lower. The boy was frightened as the Hat granted him the home of the basilisks, but he was quickly relieved as he found that since his fellow snakes considered him too far beneath them, they left him to his own machinations.

He was surprised that they ignored him, but he wasn't unhappy about it. It was better that way. Truthfully, he figured that he was lucky no one knew his surname.

Other than some of the teachers he had, he was quite sure that no other student or faculty member was aware of his existence. He accepted that wholeheartedly.

He was also grateful for the stupidity of the modern-day Slytherin House, for if they were any wiser, they would attack him. Then again, if they were any wiser, they would realize that their argument of blood-purity was as bollocks as it was during its conception.

Before, when he was a firstie, people remembered him for the first three days of school. He hated those three days. His place was handed out to him by his peers: as an orphan, he had no money, therefore he was worthless. And as a _Muggle-raised_, _not_-known-to-be-in-a-dark-family _half-blood_, there was almost no fate worse than the possibility of his fellow snakes catching wind of some lower-than-scum upstart making his name prominent.

The boy involuntarily winced at the reactions.

He remembered some words one Slytherin had said to another: "Those not of worthy blood have no place in this world of proper pureblood society."

Of course, that was many moons ago, but he was fortunate to have kept them in his mind. It had, after all, preserved his life for the past six years. And after this final year, there would be no more trouble with that. After his NEWTs, there would be nothing left. No more Houses, no more dealing with the fear of simple inter-House relations.

But that wouldn't be the end of such fears. Merely a boon in which the pain was lessened.

He wasn't blind, however. The boy knew that there was still more than enough discrimination to ensure that he would never attain a position of the highest standards in the current Wizarding Britain. He would not be the greatest Auror not politician; at best, he could more than likely be a very prominent member of the British educational system.

In turn, however, that road would require hours of nonstop effort accompanied by the taxing of his rather ingenious mind. From what he knew, Filius Flitwick was a renowned duelist in his prime who had defeated mountains and eventually settled for being a simple professor at Hogwarts. More importantly, he was part goblin and he was able to attain his current status. But what many disregarded or willfully chose to remain ignorant of was the fact that he was one of many thousands, tens of thousands, in Britain - he was only given his chances due to the fact that the British Isles could not keep such a man unknown. Had they done so, other countries would have gladly taken him in; what a wound that would have been.

Another notable non-pureblood in Wizarding eyes was the great Boy-Who-Lived: Neville Brutus Longbottom. Unfortunately, his status was extremely unique. While he was sure only Britain hailed the boy as a symbol of hope, he did not doubt that other countries were grateful for his stopping of the Dark Lord Voldemort so that they would not have had to have been involved. Thus, the boy was granted a rank which the Boy-Who-Faded could not hope to achieve. However, while he was sure that the fame would stay with Longbottom, he was unsure of how it would help the child would manage his life post-Hogwarts.

Disregarding all the possible trouble, he was content with his predicted future. He would not only be of age after his NEWTs; he would also genuinely be entering his adulthood; he would be privy to things he had not in years prior.

When Albus Dumbledore became Headmaster, many things had changed. He had adopted a very open policy, which, according to the raven-haired youth's mind, had dwindled the great light that Hogwarts once was. In fact, not only did Dumbledore enter the education system, he ascended into power within the British Ministry as well. Given the patterns, he figured that it was, while not solely based on the one man alone, mostly this lauded Professor's fault that Wizarding Britain had become a joke.

For starters, he was the one who employed Sybil Trewlaney, a quack for sure. She not only taught the most _imprecise_ form of magic, Divintation, but she was regarded by others in the same field as one of the faultiest. Moreover, it seemed that she had a yearly ritual of claiming that death would loom over one of her students.

Additionally, Dumbledore, while he was more than likely friendly with Cuthbert Binns, should have been able to see reason as to why the man needed to be exorcised. The ghost repeated only historical 'facts' about his precious 'Goblin rebellions'. By keeping a cycle of repetitive information that no one else cared about, it made all aspiring historians from the Hogwarts body worthless, seeing that their credentials would be biased and lacking. Worse, by being boring about it, Binns put his classes to sleep; that was roughly an hour (more, depending on certain days) wasted!

Unfortunately for this young man, he had been absentmindedly ignoring the Halloween Feast Hogwarts had extended to its guests, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. He wasn't quite aware of the ongoings around him while he pondered. No, he was barely aware that his fork was gently scratching a bare plate. In fact, the boy was so much in thought that he was only woken from his mental stupor when a very low voice whispered words which made his ears perk.

"_Harry Potter_." The voice seemed uncertain and confused. It seemed to him that the words which rolled off Albus Dumbledore's tongue were spoken with curiosity and a strange unfamiliarity.

He blinked. The boy was unsure of what was going on; what had happened? Why did Dumbledore say his name?What was going on? Quickly, he attempted to assess his situation. Sheeple gathered around the Great Hall. Room, dim and quiet. Glowing cup of fire in the center of the room, with Dumbledore beside it. Cup. Fire. His dark, forest eyes darted back and forth before he remembered where he was. And the date.

"Oh," he whispered. He racked his brains for any recollection of him entering the tournament as he stood up, slipping on his ice-cold facade. He was more than sure that this was a setup. He had to be careful now. The eyes of all his peers from Hogwarts as well as those belonging to the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang all lit up with as much confusion as the renowned Headmaster's did. His fellow vipers' faces darkened only to be quickly replaced by their public masks.

While they probably hated him, they were more than likely glad a member of their House had won. Even more important than the interrogation(s) he would assuredly receive was their current task: not showing weakness nor disparity to the public eye. One of their House's foremost rules - Slytherins stand united; display no difference.

His mental facilities groaned but pushed his laziness and complaints aside - they had a job to do now. He had to find out how he was placed in this mess and if he could get out. More importantly, his mind was furious that someone dared to interfere with his quite calculated seventh year.

He would make whoever did this to him pay. No one was permitted to ruin him. And if this joker or whoever thought he… or she… had a chance, he would ensure that person would never consider repeating this sort of mistake.

His stride displayed poise and grace; he had practiced his postures and gait, swiftly strutting across the Hall. He made his way towards Dumbledore and sought the old man's eyes. Given the Headmaster's confusion, he was sure that the man didn't even know of his existence. But, he knew that Albus Dumbledore was not the grandfather everyone saw.

Dumbledore had been a leader in two wars; that made him a survivor, and survivors always were cunning. He knew from personal experience. Furthermore, upon entering the world of wizards, he read that his Headmaster was the Supreme Mugwump as well as head of the Wizengamot. Dangerous was the word to describe Dumbledore's political potential, thus he could never rule the old coot out.

Increasing his pace ever so slightly, he entered the back room.

Surprisingly enough, he had managed to keep his wits about when he saw who were his two competitors. Still, seeing who they were made him very, very aggravated. And this time, he was capable of facepalming without the repercussions. And groaning.

"You've got to be kidding." He sighed, striding directly to the back of the room and keeping an eye on the other two. He felt the cool stone of the wall touching his robes from behind, and he cast several scanners to confirm he was against a wall and not an illusion.

Paranoid he may have appeared (and have been), but he couldn't take chances.

The Quidditch star merely grunted at his arrival and the Veela had her nose in the air, haughty and proud. Neither looked at each other nor did they look back at him. The most he had seen were looks of wonder and astonishment as he entered; looks of the wealthy, the _elite_, looking at an insect as if they were shivering in revulsion. Their body language spoke of their incredulity, something he saw commonly in his House mates.

Suddenly, the doors burst open again and a flurry of faculty members flooded forward.

His own Head of House looked towards him murderously on the outside, but after years of knowing the man, it was easy for Harry to see that Snape's true emotions were buried far beneath his eyes. Fortunately, this also meant that he could read the man… just like a book, however much it irritated the potions master. The unsaid message, "_We will discuss this later_", was also aimed towards him.

Karkaroff and Maxime headed off to their students and began hastily chatting in their native languages. Harry's ears caught glimpses of the conversations but nothing substantial; they were only being congratulated, from what he could make out.

Dumbledore was an odd factor in his equation. The man simply stood in the center of the room, calmly waiting for everyone else to settle down. More than likely he was trying to piece together the players of this little game, along with the routes he intended for them to take.

Bagman, Harry had completely ignored. There was no doubting it - the man was a fool. He would serve almost no purposes unless Harry could manipulate some information out of him and Obliviate the man afterwards. His jolly speech and cheerful outlook was probably all he had; rumours spoke of him being in large debt and that all of his assets from his golden years as a Quidditch player had long since vanished.

Now, the last two people were just… downright odd. Spooky, somewhat.

Alastor "Mad-eye" Moody was an Auror of legend. His body count supposedly amassed to a number beyond all the other Aurors' put together. However, it was to be anticipated: the man was a paranoid veteran, just as Dumbledore was. While he was much younger, Moody had seen no less of war.

Rumors and tales about the man spun in drastically differing directions: some claim him to be a ruthless killer, not unlike his 'Dark' counterparts while others say the man was an unhappy recruit who sought to stop the fighting in the most efficient manner he could. But, rumors were only that. Harry preferred to base his opinion on his findings of the man and over the course of the month in which the former Auror had taught, he realized that there was something slightly off about him. He wasn't sure what, but there was something alright.

For now, he would continue to give the man the benefit of the doubt as a paranoid drunk who happened to take an hourly swig. He supposed he would resort to such measures if he were forced into a favor by Dumbledore, especially a year-long favor which involved incompetent staff members and equally weak-minded students.

Harry glanced at the other.

Bartemius Crouch. The name struck a bell, and Harry filed away a mental note to look up who the man was after her sorted out this ridiculous situation.

His expression displayed nothing out of the ordinary… if you considered 'ordinary' to be completely indifferent to revealing any sort of attachment to, well, anything.

The only time Harry could see any sort of emotion in the man's eyes were when he began to speak, addressing the Champions; that, and when his eyes gave off a small, barely noticeable, spark of pride and… misery? when the man spoke of the Ministry.

A quick snapping sound brought the boy out of his reverie. He gazed upwards and found the looming shadow of one Severus Snape.

"Potter," the man drawled. "What the Goblet saw in you, I will certainly never know; how could someone such as yourself become Champion should his reflexes and acuity be so obtuse?"

Harry snorted. "Why Professor, if I didn't know any better, I'd say this was a warning." His eyes shifted towards the others who seemed to also be off in their own worlds. "As you can see, while some are paying attention to whatever is going on, not everyone, which does mean others besides myself, _Professor_, is paying attention."

Snape flashed a look of false irritation; one which Harry commonly recognized as an amused expression. Perhaps the potions master realized that Hogwarts' 'hero' really did not care for the lions' den he was thrown into.

Yawning, Harry stood up and ignored everyone else in the room. "While I'm sure you all have interesting goals and topics to discuss, I believe I am feeling tired. You see, my dear Head of House noticed that my mind was wandering. I shall rectify that with some very much needed rest." A small "Ta ta" was heard just before the door to the room closed, leaving a blinking crowd of people.

Among the group happened to be a certain silver blonde who realized that throughout the entire meeting, the young Potter was not once affected by her allure - a feat she knew should not have been possible for even the most mentally fortified adults. She especially regretted her previous disposition towards him and his outerwear - she did not miss the look of annoyance. disgust, and callousness latching onto his face, even by the chance it might have possibly happened only to match hers and Viktor's.

His absence led to the rest of the part retiring for the night; thus, they all bade one another a pardon and a good night, each heading off on his or her individual paths.

As she made her way through the, if she could say so herself, dreadfully out-of-fashion gardens and back to the Beauxbaton carriages, the Veela thought about how Harry Potter was so lost in his own world that he never spared her a glance unless she was forced to be in his view. And even then, he barely even cared to catch any part of her in his vision; that, she was sure of. It irritated her enough that she could not understand just how he did it - but that was only the first part. She was starting to feel flummoxed at the thought of wanting to know him.

Really, who was the person known as Harry Potter?

An unintended additional effect of his selection as Hogwarts' champion was Fleur Delacour finding, in her dreams, a green and silver robed form highlighted by onyx hair with matching moss for eyes.


	2. Being a Champion

**AN: Wow, more views than I expected, but hopefully I don't fail your expectations. Leave a comment if you wish; review at your leisure though.**

**Note that I do not have a beta and am not looking for one. But I am glad to take criticisms in your reviews, whether it be for plot, characterization, detail, grammar, etc.**

** Mionefan: Most definitely. I made him a seventh year for the simple reasoning that he would more than be qualified in the age department. As for Slytherin, I myself adore the House. Honestly, I think Harry should be there**

** Alyksandr: not at all, unfortunately.**

** elizabeth. croft: Yes, Slytherin Harry is indeed the best Harry (I hold nothing against Harry in other Houses but he deserves nothing but the best)**

** unrealwarfang: Thank you for that; I aim to be slightly unconventional, but we'll see where this gets to. Harry just accepts society for what it is; he understands that he can't do much about it. While I enjoy Harry being a savior, I'd like to remember him being just like everyone else - a struggling adolescent who needs to just be.**

** Queen of nerds77: Backstory, eh? Just wait and see. As for Neville being 'chosen', you mean him being the BWL? I like Neville and wish people gave him more credit, thus I gave him the title. Harry isn't that cold. It's simply that he is uninvolved. He just doesn't put himself forward. Well, not to most people.**

** Naginator: Harry doesn't need money. At least, not for now. And why is he a nobody? Honestly speaking, I just wanted him to be that way.**

** SlythrInHermione: I really like Harry x Fleur as well, but alas, my OTP is Harmony. I just felt like writing this story though so hopefully you'll enjoy it later on too. This is an AU therefore the BWL doesn't need to be selected; and no, this is NOT a Wrong-BWL story. As for the background stuff, I don't want to make a wall of text so I'll just say you'll have to see. He is an 'insect' because he is, literally, 'worthless'. Slytherins marry for power: political, economical, and magical - they see none of those in him, and they also dislike his impurity. Therefore, he is nothing to them. His coldness is a mask and he is more aloof than cold.**

**I truly hope you guys enjoy this story.**

**~Arford**

**Viper Under the Flowerbed**

**Chapter Two: Being a Champion means being real… er, alive.**

"Potter! Open up your door!"

Blinking slowly, the seventeen years old teen stirred. He must be having a bad dream. The pounding on the door was not real. Someone had pulled a fast one on him. He dreamt that he was selected by the Goblet of Fire and he had memories of walking through the Hall and making his presence known. This, of course, had all been a dream.

Or so he hoped. No, no; not hoped. Prayed, maybe. Probably. The poor boy muttered to himself continuously that right now was as much of a dream as the possibility of him becoming the representative for Hogwarts in the school's most recent endeavor: the resurrection of the Triwizard Tournament. But for him, his odds pulled through. Last night was no dream. He was most certainly the third Triwizard champion. And he hadn't even tried to become one.

The reality of the situation was that, as much as he hated to accept things which bothered him, he knew it was for the best if he did so immediately. While prevention was the best cure, the only left to do with illness was to take whatever help you could get and brace yourself for the rest, or so he told himself. He was still under his covers, turning ever so slightly, when the noise was louder this time.

He cursed himself mentally for forgetting to apply silencing charms; one of the few times he had ever forgotten.

"POTTER! OPEN. YOUR. DOOR."

Unfortunately for whoever was at the door, Harry Potter was not in the mood to get up. Oh, he knew that he would have to face many (annoying) consequences, he was also not ready at all to start his day. He had left the gathering of champions quite early and had slept through many hours of the night but he was no morning person. And this fool would be about to find that out too.

Go away, go away, leave… his mind was brutally trying to deny the pounding on his door. When it would not relent, the boy pushed himself out of bed, still in his nightclothes. Taking time to at least put on a pair of slippers and grab one of his wands (he always slept with one wand at his side; he kept a spare second that he "borrowed" under his pillow). Quickly, he camouflaged himself with his environment.

Opening the door, he looked out to see a towering Marcus Flint, eyes angered and snarling. The larger of the two was undoubtedly going to start a rather cumbersome tirade, which Harry stopped before it began. The older one looked around the room, finding nothing. But the door had to have been opened somehow, hadn't it? Flint opened his mouth, ready to go off, only to find that though his lips moved, he made no sound.

Suddenly, a very angry Harry Potter appeared before the Slytherin Keeper. His body posture spoke volumes of his irritation and impatience. He couldn't help but have a very strange feeling; he looked his younger in the eye and found himself shaking. Was this… fear?

"Flint," the green-pupiled one spoke curtly. "I will tell you this once. Your actions are unbefitting of a Slytherin. If you wish to address me, do so properly. And do it when I am out of bed and ready. Do you understand? More importantly, you are to never disturb my sleep. Again. Ever. Now let me restate this slowly. Do. You. Understand?"

Despite his brain not being able to engage with one-hundred percent capability to function, Harry Potter was granted extreme luck once again: of the cunning and ambitious qualities that had gotten most of the current Slytherins sorted, most had much of the latter and almost none of the former, making them extremely easy to manipulate. Flint was more than for certain without much wit; even the Slytherins themselves (as a collective whole) could never deny that. Which is exactly why they selected him to pester Harry - for many a Slytherin disliked the early rise, being spoiled children and all, and somehow (though correctly) concluded that their new hero had similar tastes in regards to sleeping patterns.

Flint was more than likely up because he ran the Slytherin House Quidditch team and was used to waking up so early for exercise. With his lack of smarts, he probably concluded that most people woke up at the same time he did. Marcus Flint was getting annoyed with his current situation for having to wait for Potter to leave his bed, but now he was frightened by the piercing glare that the two jade beads held. He hoped that his 'tough guy' face was still on.

Additionally, it probably didn't help that the bigger Slytherin had a wand pointed at his throat along with being silenced. He wasn't very proficient with silent casting of any sort, which Harry knew and abused.

No one threatened his sleep. Prefect, Head Boy, Professor, peer, elders, or youngers. No one.

A thick swallow and nod was all Marcus could pull off before Harry slammed the door in his face and went back to his bed.

He was just under the covers, relishing his comfort while hugging his pillow… only to realize what he just did. Wide-eyed, the boy's torso shot up so fast his heart took several moments to beat regularly again. His mind began to process the repercussions of his actions.

Flint was captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. He would interact with others. Early. As in soon. More like now. Hopefully after a few hours of practice, but there was always time in the locker rooms during which people could easily be distracted. After all, adolescents were especially fond of gossip.

Harry slapped himself. Carelessness. Again. Gritting his teeth, he groused, "Bollocks." Tiredly rubbing his forehead, he wondered what else could turn downhill. "_Tempus_," he whispered. He wasn't quite sure, but he believed his left eye started to twitch after seeing the time. Two minutes after seven.

Although the sun was rising, his room kept in most of the shadows which mirrored his mood. His rather soft collection of pillows seemed to lose their comfort and his blankets appeared to have become heavy instead of snug. Stacking onto the top of the mess was another dilemma: his body forced itself to jumpstart, thus making it incapable of reaching the level of relaxation he required to return to rest.

"This is going to be a long day."

* * *

Thirty-four minutes past his 'wake up call' from Flint, Harry Potter finally found the energy and motivation to leave the solace known as his room. Of course, he couldn't simply walk out. No, that would not do, especially not after he was practically a magnet for (very much unwanted) attention.

He stood before his full-length mirror, adjusting his green robes and tie. Despite that no one noticed him, Harry had always kept up the proper appearance, just in case. Apparently his long-time efforts did not go to waste. Glancing once more at his reflection, he checked himself over for any tracking charms. Satisfied at being clean, he quickly disillusioned himself, making him and his belongings invisible to the naked eye.

As he walked down the dormitory corridor, he rushed down to the stairs and into the Slytherin common room. Only a few people were up at this hour; a handful of first years and some of the older Slytherins. Taking no chances, he slipped around the edges of the well-furnished room and whispered to the door, "_Entry_."

A part of him smiled when he thought about the password to his House; Salazar's domain was made out for their cunning, and what better way to use such by creating a simple keyword? The other Houses would have suspected it to be longer or more… derogatory, but that was unnecessary. Thankfully, their Head wasn't as incompetent as the average Hogwarts-affiliated-person (student, teacher, or previously either of the aforementioned) and saw reason.

Once he was out of the dungeons, he headed towards his favorite place within the castle's boundaries: the place that no one would have noticed him - the library. In addition to being a reclusive young bloke, Harry had always been an extremely avid reader. Combine the two and you got… well, you got him. Since his very first year, he knew that he was severely lacking in true Wizarding education; although he got along with magic simply fine, he knew nothing of custom and culture.

In theory, he proposed that he could see how Salazar was disgusted by Muggles invading their world. The founder saw it as an intrusion on their beliefs and lifestyle; ungrateful, ignorant newbloods who flooded in, assuming they had some place in an already pre-established society. At least, that's what Harry believed. Whereas that was a very human answer, for all people dislike change, Harry furiously felt that Slytherin's creed was beyond foolish. With no new magicals, they would eventually interbreed to the point that they would not only stop producing complete people, they would actually lose the magical population through simple family reduction.

From what he could count, roughly half of each year's worth of students at Hogwarts alone was not pureblood. To deny an estimated fifty percent of the populace any sort of upbringing in magic would surely kill their society. Not that the purebloods weren't doing an excellent job on their own. The lack of Wizarding etiquette that was denied to all non-purebloods guaranteed that.

Making his way past Madam Pince's desk, he slipped to the farthest end of the library and opened the door to the Restricted Section. Only a few other students ever wandered around the area, and that wasn't quite often. His favorite part of the castle also had secret lounges, one of the things he most enjoyed. Of course, finding them hadn't been easy, but they were worth the endeavor.

"_Artifice_," he muttered to a corner of the room. The floor began to shift, revealing an old set of steps and a cabin at the very bottom. "_Knowledge_."

The room wasn't anything grand, by any means. In truth, the seventh-year student felt it was more of a private study. It was no bigger than three meters high, four meters long, and five meters wide - something he spotted almost immediately. Pythagoras must have either been an extremely lucky muggle to chance upon a rather complex (for the time) Arithmancy formula which he sold to the non-magical world as his discovery, or, he was perhaps a brilliant Arithmancer himself. Either way, Harry was surprised that practically no one in his Runes or Arithmancy classes knew the theorem until their latter years.

A bed rested against the right side of the room, with a desk and a lone chair beside it. Against the remaining walls were shelves of books of great variety - they ranged from etiquette to charms to potions to transfiguration and even more. He turned his head towards the bed. Above the backboard was a portrait of someone who always welcomed Harry into his arms with healthy discussion.

This was one of the boy's very few contacts.

Magic was a wonder; it preserved a man's essence for so many years and had kept his knowledge alive (albeit hidden until Harry had rediscovered the portrait). On the plus side, the man was kept in his prime. His poise was what one could expect from a well-respected member of society, but the man on the inside never acted as such. At times, the Hogwarts champion wondered if he was the adult and the man in the portrait a boy. Regal eyes, sharp and piercing as well, stood out from his playful gesture. Their solid blackness was so deep, Harry sometimes shivered when he stared into them. Just like now.

"Harry," he spoke, shaking the boy out of his reverie. "I have heard the news."

Sighing, Harry dropped himself onto the bed and groaned. "Do you have any idea how much trouble this is? This is ridiculous. I cannot _believe_ this. Why would the Goblet choose me? I didn't even enter. And you know that! Although, it could be possible that, given the current state of Hogwarts, it saw that there really was no one else worthy and just decided to pick me. But I doubt it. What's your take on this?"

A drawn out silence was broken as the man in portrait offered his advice. "Perhaps… perhaps your conclusion may be correct. Given what you have told me about the contemporary standards for what constitutes a proper 'wizard', you may very well surpass the rest of your peers, even if you have never revealed anything to them. Magic knows, Harry. Magic," he paused, a sign in which meant he would ramble on (something that Harry was accustomed to at this point), "is sentient. It is completely alive an understanding of the world around it. We cannot always control magic.

"But your other concerns are also quite real - that I do not doubt. There is… there is a theory in which I believe more strongly."

"Which would be..?" Harry trailed off. He paused and held up a hand in front of the portrait, signalling for another silence. He couldn't just expect answers. His eyes closed and he relaxed himself on the bed, thinking furiously.

The Triwizard Tournament: what did he know of it? It originated several centuries ago and its competitors were selected through a combination of luck, magical strength, and many other traits. It wasn't based on appearances at all; no, the Goblet knew. Harry knew the Goblet had accumulated knowledge and wisdom over its years. It was surely capable of finding the most suited people as Champions. Magic had granted it such knowledge.

And magic knew who wielded itself the best. Harry was now under speculation and the scrutiny of hundreds, if not thousands, of sheep who tended to flock to the media and its current events.

But being a Champion was only half the problem.

The Tournament itself posed an issue: it was cancelled after years of consideration because although it was a contest of prowess, it was - more than often - a feared death trap. 'Eternal glory' lasted for as long as the next Triwizard came about. Or for as long as a competitor survived. Perhaps…

He snapped his fingers. "I see. This… this could be an opportunity to kill me. But… why me? That's what I'm confused about. I haven't fought against anyone that I can remember. I've been hidden for the majority of my years. Practically only a handful in the whole school were even aware of my presence, you included."

Gravely, his heart heart sank when the portrait said, "Perhaps the target is not specifically you. Perhaps they wanted to target the 'best' of the magicals. And although I agree with your idea of a murder attempt, I see this more as a chance to find the potential head of the future.

"As you very well know, modern Wizarding society across the globe has fallen in the sense that we have become content with our place. And when not, we start disputes between one another, as muggles do, only we must be more careful. It is rather possible that someone recognized that the Goblet would be the easiest way to single out the most potent of young blood. Furthermore, this event is practically littered with gamblers, and gamblers need information. This forces you out into the open; as for beyond that, I have yet to think of anything else.

"Also, from what I have heard, the French and Bulgarian Champions had entered their names and were practically guaranteed their spots - rumors tell me that the former is adept at charms and transfigurations whereas the latter excels at hexing and duels. From when I had witnessed Tournaments in my day, I know the cup does not simply pick the most well-rounded people; it knows who will pass and who will fail. The Goblet understands each individual entrant's skills and assets, therefore I can safely conclude that whoever placed your name in the cup has plans for Wizarding Britain."

Harry Potter was not often disturbed and he had become accustomed to such a life. But, he knew that things would change. He didn't know when, why, or how until recently, but there was nothing he could do but face forward.

His fingers continued to rub circles across his forehead while he thought of the new wave hitting his life.

Of course, he was afraid. He was frightened and angered - who wouldn't be - but he knew it would do him no good. He had to make the most of his situation, as he had always done and would continue to do, even after the Triwizard. He sat on the bed, hugging his knees for a few more minutes; he knew that breakfast was nearing its end and he had to head on to classes soon.

"Thank you, Ignotus." He always loved the man in the portrait - or at least he respected him with as much regard as he could muster - ever since he discovered the room in his first year.

"It was my pleasure, Harry. I await your next visit." If a portrait of a man could mourn, then this one most certainly did. Ignotus had been alone for so long; many times in the past, he had been visited by dozens of students. But as the years passed, things changed. No one came to the room. No one saw his picture. No one remembered him.

He was grateful for Harry; the boy was intelligent and courteous. He was generally clear-minded, though he still had much to learn. Ignotus longed for the days when he could teach once more, but those days were far gone. He would make the most of his time with Harry, hopefully guiding the boy to a better life.

Said boy nodded; he pardoned his teacher and friend before turning away to the door. Donning his public persona, he left the small room with one intention: surviving whatever came across his path.

* * *

"Ahem. Good morning, class," the diminutive Charms professor was restless as usual. He was far too excited about Charms for Harry's sake, but as he believed: to each his own. The half-goblin introduced to his pupils a rather useful spell. One which provided its user the ability to fade. Oh, it was close but it wasn't disillusionment, which the young snake was already a master of (in fact, as soon as he departed from the private study, he recast it on himself). This charm allowed objects to pass through one another. Similar to the ability ghosts have on the mortal plane.

Harry did not mean any disrespect, but truthfully, it didn't look too hard. He only paid a slight bit of attention; he figured the spell would be simple to master. After all, it took only his first try make it work, but he was sure there was room for a bit of improvement. A few more tries wouldn't hurt, but there was no reason to continue actually practicing so he decided to read (the book was also invisible; if not, a floating tome would be odd, wouldn't it?).

Upon the end of class, he closed his book quietly, only to find a note on the desk in front of him. It was direct: "Please stay after class." His eyes flickered towards his teacher, whose senses were more perceptive than he had guessed. Flitwick face his direction so that Harry could look at his eyes. The two of them waited for the remainder of the class to leave, after which Filius shut the door.

"Mr. Potter," he began cordially. From what the seventh-year could tell, he wasn't displeased by any means. "I'm rather impressed, truthfully speaking. You not only kept your physical presence masked, but you've also taken into account your shadow, your belongings, sound, and smell." Harry raised an eyebrow. Yep. He definitely underestimated Filius' observational senses.

"You are more than adept at Charms, which leads me to confusion. How could I not have taken notice of you before? And the conclusion is that you are no slacker. You, more than likely, have either some runes or wards upon your person which dissuade others from interacting with you. And that, I feel, is only the tip of the iceberg. I am thankful you were chosen to represent this school."

Harry noticed he stopped speaking for longer than a few moments and sighed. He didn't remove anything but his Disillusionment. "_Indico_." His eyes never left his Professor's, showing the proper courtesy that most would be surprised by. The smaller of the two seemed to silently nudge his student as if to say "Go on".

Harry drew in a breath and slowly began his speech. He prefered premeditate speaking but being spontaneous was a necessity so he practice until he was quite good at that too.

"As you have noticed, I am… more than ready for the Tournament. At least, in comparison to those of this school. I have done more work than, dare I say it and be arrogant, the entire student body in its entirety, from the first years to the seventh years, combined.

"However, I hope you do not speak of me to the others. You can tell I have no need nor want of them. I speak with who I must, and who I desire. That happens to not include the general population of Hogwarts. Or any school here, for that matter. These… sheep will only distract me and cause me more issues, sir." Being the Head of Ravenclaw meant that Flitwick had brains, so Harry was sure he could more lenient when speaking with him.

"On top of that, I have no wish for my competitors and this society to know my full capabilities. The Tournament will showcase only the necessities." A perfectly Slytherin answer; he had Flitwick assume that he entered willingly (Harry could not risk Flitwick being his enemy, but he wasn't so sure he wanted an ally either. At the moment, neutrality suited him best).

Filius Flitwick nodded, ashamed at himself for not looking past Harry's now-obvious disguises and the fact that there was such an amazing child in the modern Wizarding world. After all, disregarding his impressive skills, he had allowed a student to go by, generally unnoticed. He never even believed that a student could be so talented as to get through his entire school career practically as a shadow. Now, he was looking forward to what said student could do - in the Tournament and out in the world.

"Very well then, Mr. Potter. I hope you do come back. This was a nice discussion. While I cannot provide insight on the Tournament Tasks, I wish to be of some help and entertainment. I have a feeling you have ideas in your mind I have yet to even contemplate."

Harry nodded and swiftly washed his appearance away once more before turning to the door and slipping through.

The half-goblin blinked. That was surprising, to say the least. He himself wasn't that fast with a wand at Harry's age… and at that point, he was one of the European Dueling Circuit's best. In addition, nor was he that intelligent at the time. While he wasn't dumb, he was most certainly not at the level Harry was at. He paused his thoughts; actually, he wasn't sure if he even knew how smart the boy was.

There was no way to measure the depth of Harry's wisdom, knowledge, wit and dexterity, but he had high hopes.

He sighed and wished the boy ended up as one of his Ravens, but he knew that his attitude and heart belonged only to the home of the serpents. And even if he somehow ended up in another House, it was clear that the boy was nothing short of the quintessential snake.

He had no qualms about the raw talent he could glimpse just from today's brief encounter. 'Advanced' students today were so spoiled in the sense that they were spoon-fed their education today that only a select few were truly worthy of the title anymore. Sadly, his own House, while renowned for their wit, had truly fallen. He knew that the current Wizarding Britain was worse than it once was; Hogwarts had been the premiere faculty of magical education at the dawn of the twentieth century. Now, it was little more than under the norm.

Students like Hermione Granger were rare; he so often desired her to be in his House too, for she loved to learn. But even then, she wasn't talented. No. Only studious. In the current generation, he realized that only Harry Potter may have been the only gifted magical in all of Britain.

And in the generation before, Filius Flitwick had been saddened to note there had only been a handful of good students. Snape had been the most notable of them all; he was the world's youngest Potions Master, a title which the man adopted at the tender age of seventeen, upon the completion of his NEWTs and time at Hogwarts.

Now, he was left to wonder what Harry Potter could bring to the table.

Flitwick sighed and walked over to his desk, sitting down and rubbing his head. His eyes caught the bottom drawer of his table. He supposed it wasn't too early - only a tad before eleven - and that he could relax. Firewhiskey always riled up his goblin genes but it made his human half feel better.

* * *

Severus Snape was unsure what to make of his most prized student (not that he would ever let anyone else know that - unfortunately, said boy knew that he was). His dark eyes flickered to the farthest corner of his classroom, where a very heavily-warded cauldron was being toyed around with. Normally, he would be alarmed that anyone would try to cover up their work in case something went wrong. But knowing Harry Potter, the chances of anything going wrong were slim to nonexistent.

In fact, the Notice-Me-Not charms and Persuasion wards kept Potter safer than not having them on. Now that his social status rose from practically nothing to the top of the pyramid, he would have been hounded and gawked at, ruining the concentration of various people in the room. As if the population of dunderheads could focus enough to get by normally, he thought to himself. A wince struggled to make its way known, but he suppressed it with his trademark snarl. Even the modern-day Slytherins and Ravenclaws struggle to brew properly.

It was bad enough that Albus had him teaching children half his age, but it was extremely painful seeing as essentially none of them had the level of understanding that he did. He supposed he was more than likely biased, after all, Potions was his forte and he had indeed become the world's youngest Potions Master. But still… he just couldn't comprehend the complete lack of knowledge the children had.

And of course, faulty potions were dangerous. More so in their ingestion, though plenty the problems resided in the brewing phase… at least in a classroom. Why people didn't think before they acted, he would never understand. An unstable potion could melt a cauldron or have some sort of side-effect, such as exploding. That could then leak the flawed fluid into _other_ students' potions or possibly atop their ingredients and tools.

Honestly. He had to tell his Slytherins this each year. Every. Single. Year. And only a few remembered! The horror of it all just ate at him.

When the boy was finished, he slipped out of his wards and left a small vial behind one of the piles of papers on Snape's desk. Snape didn't need to look at Potter to let him know to stay after class; he had generally done so often enough. Sometimes, he wished Potter could stay at Hogwarts longer - the boy was the ideal Slytherin, a perfect model of Salazar if he could dare say so himself. Even more so than the Founder's heir, his former master.

Speaking of his former holder, he truthfully mourned for his prized pupil. While he was often callous and cruel, he was not completely heartless. Harry Potter had been the unfortunate recipient of the results of the Dark Lord's war. From what he pieced together, the boy was orphaned when Death Eaters took him hostage as they assaulted his parents.

James Potter had never been someone Snape liked, but he was not Snape's enemy. Severus was too busy in school working on creating and modifying the mechanics in Potions to have time to notice much else, but he had heard about James and encountered the man once or twice in their time at Hogwarts. Although the pureblood had been loud and brash, it was true James was talented. He had heard of the joker's astonishing skill at Transfiguration. Minerva had recommended him for taking his Mastery exams but James refused, choosing instead to serve the Auror corps.

Snape recalled a heated conversation he had overheard when Minerva almost begged James to become her apprentice. Magical talent was apparently low but his generation had fairly noteworthy students. She gave up when James had insisted that dark times were approaching and that he had to defend his people and his family. It seems they cut contact after that, but he couldn't be sure of it.

The Potters, from Snape's memory, were neither poor nor rich. They were not a Noble House nor an Ancient House; they were not like the House of Black which was granted both titles. They were the middle of the bunch… Such families were a large target for Death Eater recruitment since they were promised power.

But James Potter spurned them, for he married a newblood. Lily Evans, Snape remembered. She was not as good as he in the art of potions but she was rather well-versed in it enough for him to be her partner during class and from older rumors, he recalled her getting rejected for her Mastery as Charms Mistress due to her heritage. She wasn't even allowed to ask Flitwick for help seeing as neither of them were 'qualified' by Wizarding Britain's standards.

They were warned not to wed - both by supporters and enemies, for both sides knew the consequence. However, as love was and always has been and would continue to be, it would not rest. The two were in love, and they ignored the words of others, continuing on their way.

With their union, however, their fate was sealed; the Dark Lord had ordered his minions to eliminate them. Ordinarily, they would not have been able to do so, as both were their generation's premiere. But Death Eaters were not kind people. No, they were scum. Beyond all terrible acts they could have managed, they dragged an innocent child into an adult's game of trickery and murder.

And how had no one gone and looked for the poor boy?

Often, he wondered what happened to the friends of the Potters and other families, but he figured that everyone was so paranoid that no one trusted each other. A lack of communication between once-friends and associates probably ended abruptly or bitterly. Eventually, that led to the demise of other families, pureblood, mixed, and muggleborn alike.

Snape glanced at one of the worst decisions of his life and clutched his left forearm. If he wasn't so biased and secluded at his time during his school years, he could have met with them and dare he say it, not have gone down his darker path in life. But at the time, he had been blinded by the allure of power and Dark Arts. And that was then. There was no way to change his past.

He would just have to work on the now - the upbringing of their son. The son of two of Hogwarts' most talented. The son of the forgotten heroes. Heroes to a single casualty. Heroes whose only legacy was their orphaned child.

Now, Severus Snape was not a man who believed in coincidence. Nor was he often a man to believe in luck. But Harry Potter was a young child who, in his mind, was blessed - by Merlin or whatever deities anyone could conceive. He was raised at an orphanage, unknown to the world (both magical and not) until Snape was assigned to visit the boy with his Hogwarts letter. Yet he still turned out the way he was.

Their initial meeting left Snape dazed; at the time, he wasn't sure what to make of Harry. The boy had been so accepting of his situation and he knew every twist and turn. Every angle he could see and each path he could walk. With that, he knew. Severus Snape waited for Harry Potter to arrive at Hogwarts and enter the Slytherin scene.

At first, he felt extremely disappointed that Harry's name never made it in the whispers. Until he realized that Harry was only playing his part and acting as he should have been - as the pure Slytherin who made the most of his undesirable position. He wasn't a stupid boy who had foolish notions of pureblood superiority or felt the need to escalate his position to the upper echelons of society through alliances and marriage. He simply worked to better himself.

The boy was not only gifted with the ability to remain unnoticed, he was an intellectual Hogwarts had not seen since long ago. Everything seemed to work out in his favor and Snape would do everything to help him.

Now if only they could find the culprit for the most recent disturbance.

The thought of someone sneaking into Hogwarts once sickened the esteemed professor, but he had long since realized that Hogwarts, while its wards were incredibly powerful, was not infallible. No structure was. He couldn't say 'ever would be'; the future was uncertain, after all, but for now he was sure that there were always cracks in the wall.

He had been missing several potions ingredients, and he knew exactly what they were for. The disguised thief was either some self-indulged joker who thought that it would be funny to mess around, but it was more than likely that there was a hunter on the loose.

Class ended and the rush of students leaving his classroom always left the man a bit more satisfied. Much better, he thought.

Potter left himself Disillusioned as usual but he didn't mind. It was something else he found mildly amusing. He figured it was left to him to open the discussion. As usual. Lazy child.

"Potter, have you any theories on your introduction into the tournament?" he began carefully.

"Yes, Professor, I spoke with someone concerning the incident." Ironically, the one person Snape desired to help had a level of paranoia well-beyond the established norm; he was not willing to diverge the name of his associate. "He seems to think that the tournament could be someone looking for the most magically potent of the younger ones - for what reasons though, we are unsure."

"Hmm… Do you have a list?" Snape knew the boy could figure out the unsaid words on his own. He always did at some point, usually while others spoke to him.

"Unfortunately, no." He raised an eyebrow. Harry was not giving him information? Ah, he realized. The boy seemed to suspect him. He quickly sought to discourage that notion.

"Potter, I can assure you it is not me. While I have a wish to see you become successful," there was an incredibly funny invisible snort, "you and I both know you needed not compete in this farce to eventually be so. On the other hand, I warn you now that it could be anyone. No, I know you are not stupid. Let me finish. Someone has taken to… _relieving_ me of lacewings, boomslang, leeches, powdered bicorn, knotgrass and some fluxweed."

He didn't have to see the boy to know that his posture had frozen up. After a few seconds, the student thanked his teacher.

"I see. I shall keep that in mind." Potter sighed. He paused for a small while before beginning a request for Snape, one the elder would not regret whatsoever. "Professor... Since I have yet to have an official advisor, I will be selecting you. Will that be too much of a challenge?"

"Not at all. Rather, it should provide to be interesting. After all, a man can only brew for so long. And if not that, one can sit and watch fools do it instead but for just a short while."

"Very well then. Professor Severus Tobias Snape, Head of Slytherin House," where and when had the boy learned his middle name? "I, Harry James Potter, student of Slytherin House, request of you, in accordance with the rules as a Champion of the Triwizard Tournament between Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons, to be my Tournament Advisor and Instructor."

"I, Severus Tobias Snape, Head of Slytherin House accept the request of Harry James Potter, student of Slytherin House, and pledge my aid to his cause in the aforementioned Triwizard Tournament under the banner of Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

A blue glow filled the room followed by a relaxed silence.

"I shall be going now, sir. Thank you again for your time."

* * *

Harry Potter was not amused. The game was afoot and though he wasn't on the initial roster list, he was going to come out the winner. No matter what it took. Snape's information had been most helpful. But who could it be? The thoughts bugged the boy until he could stand it no more. As soon as the words buzzed into his ears, his mind began to jump at the possibilities.

He fled from the Potions classroom to the outdoors of Hogwarts grounds. It was at times like this that he was grateful for the forest and gardens of the castle. Hogwarts' plantlife, thanks to Sprout, was wonderful. Being a very reclusive person left him time to appreciate whatever else there was besides people, which happened to include nature.

Of course, the Forbidden Forest wasn't as much as the name suggested. At least not to him. He had to repress a snort in case the centaurs heard him. Bane was an annoyance but since the creature wasn't good enough to track him, he thought about it and left them alone.

Harry walked through the woods pocketing a few potions ingredients here and there and turned around to find his favorite spot near the edge of the forest. He was surprised again, and he found that this one at least, was more pleasant than the last.

The veela from Beauxbatons was sitting in the small opening of the forest that he had so carefully cleared and warded - how had she gotten in? - on his favorite rock. That rock was large enough to extend from the border of the water a bit into the land. He would not sulk just because she took his favorite spot. At least not now.

He wondered if he should speak, but he decided against it. No, he was content with sharing… for now. His gaze lingered on the beautiful scene before him. No, he wasn't looking at the veela; he was not that weak-minded to be drawn to such a thing as an allure. The sunset before him was always best seen from this spot, something he discovered a few years ago. It lingered with a radiant grace, letting its hues announce themselves through the sky and lake.

Although his secret space wasn't his alone anymore, at least he knew someone else could appreciate nature too. Perhaps he had been too hasty in judging the girl. His eyes found themselves fixated on her, despite his resistance. He wasn't drawn by her allure, but something tugged at him. It was her solitude, he realized. She seemed so lonely. Almost as much as he was.

Harry Potter was not one to make forward gestures, but he decided against the more skeptical parts of his nature. He walked up behind her and silently conjured a lone flower, placing it on the rock a little walk backwards so that when she turned, she would find it.

He wasn't one to assume, but he knew she would see it. The sunset was halfway gone and she would have to return to her carriages. The only thing he assumed this time was that she would take this extended hand.

With that, Harry Potter retired to the castle.

* * *

He blinked as he made it into his bed. His premonition was most certainly correct. Today was unusually long. He closed his eyes, hoping that the next day would not be the same.

But for whatever reason, his dreams were peaceful that night.


	3. Wandering Thoughts

**AN: Sorry for the long time in between updates; I've been rather busy lately. It's strange, but they say the last year of high school is the most carefree, especially post-APs. I beg to differ. My teachers have been assigning us vast amounts of busy work in addition to me having to complete my term paper (draft was just finished last night) and my senior programming project (still not done yet).**

**This is only a small update - I originally started the chapter in March, but I've added some to it. I apologize again, but I hope you continue to read this. My updates will be more stable and lengthy in the summer. Thank you.**

**Kairain1979: I realized that Slytherin!Harry often does a few things: change the opinion of his House, does whatever he wants, or is totally evil. I liked the second option of the three most-often types of Slytherin!Harry I've seen, and hopefully I don't completely disappoint. And yes, unpleasant attention is rather annoying to deal with - especially for a passive person such as my version of Harry.**

**Ikarus Solotov: I'm rather happy you've complimented my work, as I am an avid fan of yours. I don't know if I can continue to live up to your expectations, but I will try. Sorry that this update may not be that great; I will try to work harder on the next one.**

**Guest: Sirius? Seriously; who? Okay - I'm not funny. But to be honest, I kind of forgot other characters besides Fleur and Harry existed when I started this. I had a grander idea in the beginning and I'm working out the issues. Sirius, to be honest, may or may not appear in this story. I am unsure. Mainly because there's little chance that the House of Black could afford to be friends with non-elite Purebloods like I have made James in this story, but then again in canon, Sirius is nothing like his family. Hopefully I can create a worthwhile solution.**

**Ascius Blackhammer: Thank you for your kind words, and I write to simply write - glad you enjoyed. Still, like I mentioned before, I hope this update is at least even the littlest bit satisfactory. I will update more in the future.**

**guest: Wow, "a gem in the making"? That's really nice too. I think it's mostly because I don't have a high word count - I'm a rather concise writer, and stretching to even a few thousand words is difficult for me. I honestly don't know how some writers have so much; I admire writers like robst and bexis1 for still continuing their largest works which have reached over one million words.**

**Peaslums: The dreaded keyword: potential. It currently isn't much, but I'm doing what I can. Hopefully I don't douse the flames of your hope… and thanks, I used to use DLP for some stories, though I stopped because I was unsure of the levels of activity.**

**elizabeth. croft: Pure romance? To be honest, I don't think so. There is most certainly a villain. Or possibly more than one. The focus would be romance, yes, but there are going to be challenges other than that. If that dissuades you from continuing this story, I apologize if my summary was misleading.**

**shugokage: I am grateful for your well-wishes. Hopefully this small break will be okay to you too.**

**southpaw05: thanks for your review**

**Lord Jace: Uhhh. Trying to continue this. As mentioned before, I will try to update more in the summer, after all my schoolwork has been done and everything is more mellow. Right now, things are a bit hectic,**

**timefreak: The settings for this just kind of came to me, and it's like the story speaks itself in my head. Thank you for the advice; I was contemplating flashback at first, but for now I'm a bit hesitant to use it. There will probably be flashbacks in the future though.**

**DamnHigh: Why thank you! I am trying to do what people have not done before, or at least to attempt different things. But I doubt that will last for long, because there are always similar stories somewhere. If I'm lucky enough, this work will still be good enough that people will want to read it**

**DefinitelyNotAnApple: That's a rather bold and warming statement. Although my word count may not be high, I work a lot on each chapter, no matter how small it is. Even though most of my other works are one-shots, I spend a lot of time editing those, so this will be even more effort-intensive. At least, in the future. This current update may displease many people, but I feel like you guys deserve something after two months of nothing. I will try to finish this; and I will write more when I can, especially in the summer.**

**~Arford**

**Viper Under the Flowerbed**

**Chapter Three: Wandering thoughts**

Fleur Delacour was not one to hang in crowds. No, it was better to say that crowds displeased her. Disgusted her, even. It wasn't due to the fact that she was just beautiful. It was what contributed to her beauty that made her despise it. While she may come off as haughty, she knew it was a frail defense. Anyone who had keen focus would surely see right through her. She didn't want attention the way it was gifted to her - who would?

A pained expression flickered onto her flawless skin, though its effects marred her beauty quite little. The her she saw in the water was the embodiment of every physical desire that others sought. Women and girls her age tended to hate her purely out of ignorant spite. It wasn't fair, but she couldn't fault them. Every time she neared a group, the females seemingly hisses in dislike and jealousy. Fleur, frankly, had to put little effort into her looks. She was born at the height of aesthetic appeal (her father was quite handsome, and she could see how her mother was attracted to him) - she believed that regardless of her Veela heritage, she would still look this way. But no, that wasn't enough. The gift of being born Veela naturally had to enhance her already fine features as well as provide her with an aura that caused men to grow restless.

It was something that most girls didn't understand. She snorted. They thought it was easy being her. They assumed that all she had to do was simply turn on her entrancing aura and pick out any guy she wished for. At one point, Fleur recalled that one of the other students blurted out that Fleur had it all too easy and that she could have the choice of anyone. Another called her a term she felt stung by; but the usage of this word slowly grew. And she hated her heritage all the more.

She couldn't bear to fault her parents; they made the most of their situation and gave her as much support as they could show. She knew that. So she acted as strongly as she could, keeping her pride alive and acting unaffected, despite what others insinuated about her. She never let her parents know that most of her school referred to her as a rather… loose woman. She struggled so much to prevent the rumors from reaching the ears of her family. Fleur had no desire for her father to retaliate through his position in the Ministry; she felt that was another unfair advantage in her life.

And that led to her current predicament.

The silver-blonde was granted an immense honor this year; she was selected to be a part of the Beauxbatons entourage which would visit Hogwarts to compete in a rather prestigious event: the Triwizard Tournament, which hadn't been held in several centuries. An even greater gift was bestowed upon her when the Goblet of Fire cackled with furious flames that spewed out her name, pronouncing her as the proper Beauxbatons Champion.

Yet she felt like nothing like a representative. Her delegation had clapped politely and shouted with cries of approval in public, as did the other contentions for courtesy, but she knew the public facade was simply that. While the Beauxbatons ensemble was in the presence of other schools, they had the grace to act accepting of her. But when they remained near the carriages, they ignored her.

Oh, they accepted the fact that she was their Champion; the Goblet of Fire was a powerful object created eons prior and many Unspeakables from a handful of countries studied the thing - it knew who would be fit to be proper champions. More importantly to the general French student, the fact was that the cup wasn't a person and therefore couldn't be seduced. So of course, she was fairly selected. But that didn't mean they really liked her any more than they had in the past. If anything, it simply isolated the poor girl even further.

Still, Fleur was not one to give up. She knew what would happen if she decided to go to Britain. She realized how she would be seen as a champion, initially, at least. Which is why she would struggle to prove them all wrong. To prove herself to everyone. She scoffed at the idea of eternal glory. The only sort of glory she wanted was the recognition of her peers and enough pride to truly walk with her head high, unabashed.

She sighed again. There were few positives for now, she supposed. She stopped to think about where she was currently, atop of a boulder, glancing at the Black lake. Of course, something like this lake was nice right about now; in the morning it appeared ugly but she figured around midday to evening, the sunset would enhance its natural beauty. And oddly enough, for a Veela, she was attracted to water, despite her fiery nature. They were just so beautiful to look at and appreciate. Usually, she would not have the luxury of such free relaxation, but she found herself with a rather abundant amount of spare time this year. Additionally, because she had such spare time, she was now able to find a spot to constantly visit.

Her little stroll through Hogwarts' Forbidden Forest had given her new hope about the British; it was fresh and rather nice, though she would never want to be trapped in it in the dark. She slipped in and between the woods, and looked for just the right place. There were also rumors of unicorns trotting free, piquing her interest even more but she hadn't seen any this day. Her love for exploration was satisfied that she had at least found this space; her heart roamed the earth as much as her mind wandered through the struggles of life. Speaking of hope, her heart sank when her thoughts turned towards a certain black-haired young man.

Once again, a pained expression took itself upon her face as she winced slightly. She hadn't been the most polite of guests towards the host champion. It was, unfortunately, only _after_ the meeting that she realized two things: she had been most unnecessarily rude, and that Harry Potter was completely unfazed by her aura. The thought of someone so young being able to resist her aura was so foreign to her that could not even come to fully comprehend it even now. It baffled her completely.

She turned around once the eve began to settle in, ready to make her way back to the carriages and found a lily carefully placed behind her where she was sitting upon and she coloured slightly. It was not an accident, after all, the flower had looked fresh. No one knew that - so who could have left it?

Fleur could not help herself and picked up the offering; this was when she realized it was a conjuring. The flower dissipated at her touch, breaking into a shower of petals, transforming into a yellow rose. Her Veela senses became enamoured and they began to fall in line with the rush of magic that emitted itself from the flower. Her eyes widened. The feeling she felt from this flower had only been near her once before. Could it be? She trembled and dared not think the most of it.

This was a declaration of a hand of friendship. And the flower had the magical signature of one green-eyed Hogwarts Champion.

* * *

Harry Potter, simply put, was not a fool. He was the least likely person to even be considered for such a title. That, however, did not imply he did not engage in acts of foolishness, for which he did, abundantly so. For instance, he seemed to think that life would provide him no problems and that he could have gotten away with a rather carefree life. Or as carefree as he predicted. But, that was not the case. At the cost of his insolence, he was drafted and thrown into a battle which he had not expected: the hectic drama called a Triwizard Tournament. Furthermore, he realized other things.

One being that he was far too careless; he had allowed his name to be revealed. Stupidity and brash aloofness left his mind far too distant to initially take in what was going on. The act of having his name known was a taboo in his book, as far as magic went. And now he began to suffer for it. At first, he wondered how Flitwick had noticed him when he had never done so before (after all, he should like to think that seven years' worth of repeated charm work which kept him safe thus far was not faulty). But then it became all too clear. Too obvious. The answer was no small slap to the face. It hit him like the Express.

Knowledge is power.

Magic. Magic, the center of his existence. Magic, the bane of his existence. How he loved yet hated the thing. There were times when he cursed the qualities of magic - this was one of them. He had forgotten; names are vital and should not be known nor given away so freely. And the fact of the matter was that his name had been blatantly tossed to the wolves, thus weakening his defenses. People who knew the name would know him. Would sense him, at least. The more keen would have stronger sense and perhaps even an image of him. Those especially proficient in their wizardry and witchcraft would have already begun to see traces of him. Traces that had previously never existed, since they had no knowledge.

Therein lay his predicament. It was clear that the perpetrator was skilled in sorcery and would soon see through his concealments and disguises. He or she had leads on who Harry was, and had more than likely seen him as he passed by in the Great Hall several nights ago. On the other hand, the onyx-haired youth had not a solid conclusion as to who this person was. Oh, but he had suspicions supported by several clues. The biggest one had been right in front of him for quite some while and he was rather hesitant to accept it, but it made the most sense. It was, previously, a notion which he dismissed, but the more he thought about it, the more he began to confirm his theory. Life was such, that ironies would be fulfilled. He was no longer lenient in his calculations nor his observations; no, he was more than certain of his assertions.

Truthfully , it was not too difficult for him to figure out. His eyes were always mobile, and thus, they picked up on things. They drifted through the air constantly, everywhere. And should his vision ever fall short, he had other senses, of course. He was bestowed with a rather enhanced sort of hearing, sharp enough for him to borrow bits and pieces here and there from conversations most would not be privy to. It was useful, generally when information was passed down in the confidence of whispered words and mutterings. Nevertheless, his perception of smell was also acute; smell and taste were neither here nor there - not the best, but more than necessary for the norm (what sort of Potions-invested genius would he be could he not properly taste and smell his ingredients and brew?). He had to recognize each ingredient at its highs and lows for every potion and ritual he sought to perform.

But the sense he prided himself on the most was his touch. No, no; for him, that word was inadequate. His sense, if you will, was simply that. He could simply feel. He simply knew. He was alert. He was conscious. Of practically everything. His own magic extended out as though they were an extra set of arms and ears; it relayed information to him by expanding throughout a certain perimeter. His domain.

And from the very beginning of this Hogwarts term, his senses had picked out one rather peculiar specimen. It was all so easy to see now - everything seemed to just click - and he was rather abashed. He had the audacity to assume! To assume that he would never be caught; that was the downfall of many mighty men: hubris. He no longer held any trace of such a vile trait, at least, not for the time being. Instead, he pondered on how he could capture and interrogate his offender.

Alastor Moody. Or whoever was Moody, at this point. Snape's information had been useful, and when he began to narrow the possibilities of who could have involved him, he figured it to be a list of few: said aforementioned professors, his headmaster (though he doubted it, given the seemingly genuine confusion on the old man's face as he read his name - still, politicians were dirty and Dumbledore had been in the game for far too long to not have picked up more skills than any other in Wizarding Britain - but, he was no longer care-free, and to assume would be a grievous error), and even a high Ministry official. Given what he remembered, Bartemius Crouch had felt… off. Not in the same manner as Moody, however.

Instead, the man felt dirty - he did not seem like he was behaving as himself. But he could smell no potion residue on the man, nor did he feel the post-consumption magic of ingredients being let out. That left only more to question. How long had he been under the Imperius? What purpose would that serve?

Harry lay on his bed, closed his eyes and scrunched up his forehead in thought. And it hit him. Whoever this Moody impostor had to be, he or she had some sort of connection with Bartemius Crouch. Crouch would then be then used to monitor and manipulate official events regarding the Triwizard, while 'Moody' could propose support, both openly and not, for Harry. In doing so, it would seem as though his drive was the antithesis of the front that pushed the raven-haired teen into competing while in reality, he was the one pulling the strings.

Again, epiphany claimed his thoughts; did this 'Moody' have the real Alastor's eye? Harry had read about magical cosmetics and prosthetics - and noted that amongst the British, it appeared that only a select few were willing to make such a purchase. Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody being one of them.

If this Auror-imposter did have Moody's eye, it was no wonder that he had been found out. He was unsure if his enchantments would be enough to conceal himself, especially against an eye that the most paranoid person in all of Great Britain had crafted for his daily use. That meant that this fake had been in place of his supposed professor months prior to the term. And Harry realized that it wasn't a matter of when he had been found out - he had to have been discovered within the first week. Troublesome, to say the least.

Although some questions had been answered, his mind was still plagued by some. What exactly was this imposter's purpose? And more importantly… why him? Was it due to his gift with magical talents… or had he unknowingly made some sort of enemy?

Emerald greens bore into the ceiling. He had to find out who this little sneak was. And who else might be in on this rather disgusting turn of events.

He was no longer a viewer, but a player. And players were very different from non-competitors. Especially the truly cunning. The instigator of these events knew nothing of being an unchallenged genius. To call for such a challenge against him… well, one would have to be rather curious or rather mad. Perhaps both.

Still, he would respond. And he would do his very damned best to show them what made a true viper. He would teach the world the Hogwarts motto: Do not disturb a sleeping dragon.

Harry Potter let out a soft whisper as he lay on his bed, thinking.

"May the best man win."


	4. Cue the Curtains

**AN: I haven't updated in a long time, and my muse disappeared for a while. I'm unsure of how my story will now progress. The description will be changed. I still think it'll be a Fleur x Harry story but I doubt it'll focus on Romance now.**

**Leave your thoughts, if you will. Thanks.**

**Viper Under the Flowerbed**

**Chapter Four: Cue the Curtains**

Harry Potter was a mystery to the many, but to him, the many were little but. Of course, that did leave the few exceptions. One of them being who this 'mystery Moody' was. He had theorized several ways to trap the man, but he figured the casualties would be rather high on his end. After all, this was someone who, if not directly then had a least a part in, had gotten the drop on one of Britain's most famous paranoid.

While it was obvious that there were more people like himself, that is, people who stood in the shade of daylight, never to be found, Harry knew that because Mad-Eye was a survivor of war, his paranoia had to be fairly high and well justified, even though he was a public figure. Also, Polyjuice was no great challenge to make… however, stealing from Severus Snape was something that no common man would ever think to do. Though not paranoid, Snape was a vengeful man. The kind of man that you would laugh at one day, cross the next, and die from the other - that is, if you were really his enemy.

Harry never saw his mentor kill, but he knew he was a former Death Eater and that his mentor was the world's youngest Potions Master. Snape had become legendary in the Potioneer scene after it was discovered that he had gathered most his ingredients by hand - meaning that unlike many who waited and purchase their stock, he was someone who waited and killed his prey for his stock. Or he negotiated with whatever magical creatures were intelligent. The man was and always would be a thorough Slytherin; just like the carefully pondering ravenhead.

He walked on through the forest and dodged another branch as he muttered to himself. There wasn't really much to think of, save for whatever the first task might be. School work could take a break; he made sure never to mark too highly anyway and a sudden decrease wouldn't seem very sudden at all.

"Bloody centaurs, chasing me this way and that," he grumbled. To avoid them was tedious… but it had its rewards when he was able to sneak in and out of the Forest. Speaking of said woods, there must have been some sort of infestation. He couldn't recall the last time it was this covered in vines and animal carcasses. Wait. What.

He paused his step and sniffed. Carcass. He blinked. Some burns, some poisons. He strained his ears while he sniffed again. "Oh no. Oh no no no." Were they mad? He knew he himself could handle these beasts, but could others? Were they insane? These tournament advisors had no idea what they were doing; there's no possible way their cognitive capabilities were functioning properly. That or they were in emotional distress or high when they made these decisions. "Please don't let me be right," he whispered as he let out a soft groan.

Careful to avoid any Acromantula webbing and centaur traps, he wove around and about. A sense of growing displeasure began to expand; if this was the level which he would need to compete at, he knew for sure that had any other Hogwarts student been selected, she or he would never make it past the first stage. There was little doubt as to what the current task would involve but he'd prefer it if his guess was actually incorrect for once.

He approached a deeper level inside the Forest, walking calmly now, steadying himself for any confrontations. The hissing of flame and snaketongue proved him right after all, but that wasn't the only thing he recognized as he stepped into a well-prepared clearing, littered with dozens of animal carcasses… and some of men. His eyes flickered to the group of beasts in front of him. Three very distinct creatures roamed around the larger crater and they roared with pride and power. Their magic called out to him, not even withholding their wanton lust for carnage.

"Hello there," he whispered softly. Not that they could hear him, anyway. They were stuck in that pit of a clearing, that literal hellhole of a cage. Several - many - wards boxed them in and kept them at bay; no doubt, Albus Dumbledore himself must have had a part in this. The designs, while not entirely too advanced for him, did give the young man some trouble when he sensed them; they were too complex and well-placed for any common man to devise. Additionally, they were layered with dozens of runes and each keystone seemed to be handmade, with custom engravings too. That being said, the number of wards was also rather high: which only spelled 'danger' in relation to the prisoners inside.

He dared not trespass that invisible barrier since there were three of them and only one of him. They were large beasts. Magnificent in some ways… horrifyingly so; they were dreadful creations, each and everyone of them. Natural and unnatural both. He barely repressed a visible shudder.

"Well met," Harry whispered softly. This was more than he was expecting; much, much more. But still, even if they went this far, he could… no. Would. He would go further than whoever was behind this. "I look forward to the challenge."

* * *

The day of the first task began like any other, and as such, the young Potter saw no reason to stress. That was, of course, until the time of said task. No, no; it was not the difficulty of the task that the boy worried about. It was the fact that he had to reveal a few of his own tricks to some undeserving ingrates and foreigners. Foreigners. He hated the tournament even more for the fact that it involved other schools. If he made a name for himself, they would know him; they would find him. If he failed to make a name for himself, most would forget him. Some would remember him in shame, others would doubt the results and surely seek him. Either way, the end results were rather unpleasant.

He sighed silently and donned a new face, a new persona (though he was still Disillusioned) that would hopefully misdirect the crowd. He was waiting now, just waiting for the right moment to be _this_ him, but all things would come in due time. Instead, for now, he would continue to observe his surroundings.

One Ludo Bagman was waiting in the Champions' tent, nervously pacing back and forth. Perhaps he lost another bet - not surprising - or got into more debt - again, also typical - and had nothing left to his name except his position for this ridiculous competition. Regardless, he was ignored by the still-invisible representative of his country. Funny enough, Ludo was the only one in the tent almost capable of causing the Hogwarts' Champion to be found; the Slytherin almost snorted at the very sight of this pathetic man.

Severus stood at an edge of the tent, eyes closed and quite pleased. His wayward student managed to make it here after all, and he didn't even have to drag him to do so. Though he wasn't worried for the seventh-year, Snape was still impatiently waiting. Waiting to see how Potter would finish the challenge. Curiosity burned feverously in the Potionmaster's heart. He was genuinely excited to see what the boy had in store. Of course, he wasn't like many in the crowd. He was not expecting anything flashy or grandiose. No, none of that at all. Snape hummed to himself softly, hoping to see a masterful display of cunning, tactics, and magic.

Albus Dumbledore was not yet there, but the presence of the other two heads did not go unnoticed. Maxime was attempting to calm Fleur down, but her prized student seemed to be slightly on edge. Harry noted that she must've had some sort of foreknowledge for her to be that unnerved. Though haughty, the veela did not appear to be one so easily distraught. She obviously was unsure of her capabilities to handle the task. It was amusing to see her try and look calm when it was clear to the trained-eye that she was not.

Her wand twitched in her right hand, twirling about occasionally. It was a long, slender piece - a fine white - but to Potter, it was just like any other wand: an instrument, and no matter how it looked or what it was made of, it was only as good as its master. He did have to admit that it made a fine accessory to her physically enjoyable features. Still, he moved on to observe the remaining members of the tent.

Viktor Krum and Igor Karkaroff did a much better job of hiding their emotions. Though, unlike Fleur, while Viktor displayed a small hint of fear, his expressions denoted a sense of excitement. Something that the Durmstrang head picked up on if his nervousness was anything to come by. Perhaps the Bulgarian was thrilled by the prospect of challenge; Karkaroff was probably worried about what would happen to _his_ image should his star fall short due to injury. The young Slytherin was unsure of how ready his male competitor was, though he did wish for a challenge. He had no idea of Krum's skill levels.

He sincerely hoped that Viktor Krum was not as stupid as he looked but that he was as tough as he did. His eyes traced the grim face of the Quidditch superstar. No matter, he was still somewhat of a fool to Harry. If he really was ready for battle, then he should know not to fear his test, but to fear his opponents.

A flapping sound distracted him before he could lose himself in more thought. Dumbledore had arrived with Ollivander. And… who the hell was the hideous thing? His eyes caught the sight of a cameraman following close behind it. Good heavens… this was Rita Skeeter? A silent gulp passed his throat and one of the most powerful urges he had ever felt to repulsively shiver was fought tooth and nail to the bitter end. He had read many of her articles to keep up with the current trends of Wizarding Britain but he had never actually spared a moment to find out what she looked like.

He swore to himself a Thrice-Bound-Oath to never let himself be caught with it… er. Her. And that he would never let his bod… words, he corrected himself… be taken advantage by her.

Never had he felt so unnerved by the sight of a person; and this was a teenaged boy who had seen much and many things for those his age. His nearly-perfect control was almost shattered and his disguised almost ruined. Luckily, he was able to hold himself down. Smooth breathing once again found its way to his system and he relaxed.

After the reporter came in the unknowing slave, Crouch, and the not-Moody. He bit his lip, careful not to give away to the impostor that he was unnerved. He had no qualms that he was being thoroughly examined by the real Moody's mystical eye.

"Where is young Mister Potter?" questioned Skeeter. Her eyes were predatory, waiting for a chance to catch a word with this mysterious young man. An enigma who baffled all of Magical Britain; finding the fine details of his life would do wonders for her.

Potter refused to answer.

Karkaroff cut her off before she could continue. "Well, whatever the case, it's obvious he isn't here," cue the hidden snort from Snape and the growing grin of one smug Harry Potter, "so let us continue. If he wants to lose, let him."

Maxime nodded in agreement. Any advantage was a big one, and she would take it. "I agree; we must not delay any longer."

Soon enough, everyone else consented - though Dumbledore didn't seem to be put out by the apparently lack of a Hogwarts champion (Harry paused and raised a brow; did the man know?) - and Ollivander began to examine the wands of the foreign competitors.

Fleur went first, handing her wand over carefully. The old crafter's eyes narrowed and his face scrunched up in thought. "Really now…" he muttered. "Rosewood… Not too long or too short. Perfect for you. Oh? What's this..? Hm… Veela hair? Interesting…" Fleur looked at him sharply, but the elderly man just chuckled. "I mean no insult. Just that veela hair is rather difficult for a wizard or witch to connect with. She must be a relative of yours then, if this is not your own." Placated, Fleur nodded in response. Her wand's core was a priceless gift from her grandmother.

Ollivander flourished the wand with a remarkable grace and caused a shroud of flower petals to dance through the air of the room. Deeming himself satisfied, he returned the tool to its owner.

"Next," the wandmaker called out. Krum trudged over and slipped his wand into Ollivander's hands. "Oho… how surprising," he said softly. "I have not seen one of these in years… Many, many years... " he turned to the Durmstrang representative. "This is most certainly one of Gregorovitch's works. I had assumed that he stopped crafting them, however… this does appear to be a recent make." He ran his hands across the wood one more time. "Hornbeam. And a rather nice core to match it and your personality, Mister Krum. Dragon heartstring… rather temperamental but powerful. Excellent."

He tested this wand by making a fountain of sparks erupt from one end, only to finish his demonstration by casting a large shield over the tent's inhabitants as the the lights fizzled away harmlessly. Viktor gladly retrieved his wand, proud of its capabilities.

"Well then," Ollivander said. "I suppose it is your turn, is it not, Mister Potter?" His voice was laced with mirth and humor; Harry suspected that the wandmaker, while odd and as eccentric as Dumbledore, was also not senile nor insane. Everybody but Snape, Moody and the Chief Mugwump stared at him in confusion. Was he talking to the air?

"I suppose it is," a voice drawled. It was time for the first act; the curtains were lifted, and he was now on stage. The assembled turned their necks towards the direction of the voice. "However, I cannot, in good will, part with my wand until you promise me your word not to harm it and to immediately return it to me after your inspection. After all, no wizard should be so willing to turn over a part of himself, no?"

At this, he saw his headmaster's eyes widen a slight fraction before the old man let out a laugh, which Ollivander soon joined in on.

"Too true, Mister Potter," Ollivander happily remarked. "Thus, I promise you, Mister Potter, I shall not harm your wand; and on the occasion it is rendered unusable, I shall replace it with one of my greatest. And I swear I shall return it to you as quickly as I am able to after I am done with my view."

Everyone stood dumbfounded as a dark-black wand materialized out of nowhere and was carefully passed into the inspector's grip. Ignoring the others, Ollivander stared at the object, fascinated.

"Oh… oh?" he closed his eyes in remembrance as he started to speak. "Ah, yes… one of my own. I remember now, Mister Potter. Yes… indeed, I remember. That was a wonderful day. Six years ago now, a young boy strode into my shop," he murmured wistfully. A careful finger caressed the edge of the wand; it was entirely unlike the way he handled Krum's, and it drew the eyes of Albus Dumbledore and the other heads as well as one 'Moody' and Snape.

"This wand is one of my loveliest, is it not, Mister Potter? Moonwood on the outside, Evewood as the first interior layer, and finally, a coating of Everpine after that." At this, people gaped. Three woods? Not many wizards used wands of any of those woods, much less all three. Few wizards or witches even used wands with more than one kind of wood. Ollivander, again, paid the others no mind and neither did the wand's owner.

Ollivander whipped the wand through the air, laughing as he did so. Even Dumbledore was stumped. He hadn't seen Ollivander so happy in many a month. None of the others had, ever.

"Yes, yes… this wand, how I remember it so. Powdered tricorn horn in the Evewood, hair of Sphinx along the inside of the Everpine to protect the wand from the core: vorpala venom with a drop of vampire and basilisk blood." He hadn't even tested the wand before he stopped in front of nothing and had the wand gently pried from his fingertips; it disappeared not even a moment after.

The room was silent. How could they not be? While the oddities of the ingredients did not denote power, they did indicate talent or affinity… and this unseen competitor seemed to have an affinity for various kinds of magic. But it was clear that the strongest elements were aligned with potions and alchemy, given the vampire and basilisk blood. Even Snape was surprised. Harry had always been wary not to let anyone know of the ingredients composing his wand.

Rita Skeeter almost squealed with delight. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for! So many possible stories flooded through her mind and by now she almost drooled at the prospect of writing an article on this 'Harry Potter'. All she needed was to get to her publisher and-

"By the way," said boy's voice rang out. "_Religo_ _aequum. _There. Now none of you will be able to share this information. Ever. Should you dare attempt to, in any way, shape, or form, you will not like the consequences. Of this, I promise you. And that's a warning. Not a threat."

What. What just happened? No. No way. This did not just happen, Rita thought to herself. "Why you…" Skeeter was pissed. How dare he? Who did this brat think he was?

"Hm?" he interrupted. "Why what? Why would I do this? Obviously to protect myself and my wand. This wand is rather dear to me; I hope you understand. Of course, I wonder if yours is to you? Or are you rather fond of recording your findings on wizards' wands?" his voice was neutral but to Severus, it was highly sarcastic. Good grief, the man already had enough trouble but now he had to bite back a smirk after his student's not-so-subtle innuendo.

Red colored the reporter's face as laughter reached her ears - Krum and Delacour were laughing at her expense! Hers! - and she took out her wand, only to have it disarmed and thrown to the edge of the tent.

"Ah ah ah," tsked the invisible teen. It was harsh and unrelenting. Typical Harry, Snape noted."You wouldn't _dare_ assault your own country's champion, would you? What a naughty woman, looking to inspect wizards' wands and to hurt little boys such as myself."

Again, the room was frozen. This boy had mercilessly butchered Skeeter's ongoing continuum of poorly written slop and slapped her wrist so hard she wouldn't be able to slander him. He wasn't just a schoolboy, many began to realize. He was a cutthroat who knew where all the vitals were, and he wasn't afraid to commit manslaughter. Inwardly, Snape reveled in joy. Someone was finally willing to stand up against this ridiculous reporter.

The fake Moody was particularly interested in him, both eyes surveying the area he was hiding in expectantly and animatedly. Potter still had yet to find out what was going through that person's mind.

"You will find," the boy continued, "that I do not take things lying down. And you should remember…" his voice dropped and became colder than ice. ",,,that I do not take challenges to who I am. I know what you are. I know who you are. I am fine being who I am - a shadow- and I do not need your garbage to place me in some unwanted spotlight. I am clear, of course; and I am sure you heard me. Do no test me."

By this point, the cameraman had already ran out of the tent to who-knows-where while the female bug stood still.

"Wonderful!" the boy's voice had eerily changed to somewhat… happy? Everyone else shivered. "Now, let's get on with this show… and start the task. The sooner I'm done, the better."

Wanting to remove the uncomfortable silence, everyone else swallowed a tough lump of breath and hurried on. They all turned to the British Ministry's spokespeople.

"Ahem," began Bagman, sweating profusely, "We will now commence the first task of the Triwizard Tournament of 1994 between Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons." He withdrew a bag from one of his pockets. "Each of you will draw lots to see the order of competition."

Krum and Delacour reached in, grabbing their lots. Harry overhead them call out numbers and let his expression darken, though he was certain only the curious magical eye could see it. Things were going to change. They were on his court, and the ball didn't seem to stop rolling.

This Harry Potter would show the world.


End file.
